Chocolate Powder
by Lornesgoldenhair
Summary: The Doctor and Clara share a nightly ritual now that she has moved into the TARDIS, one that's about to take a new turn. Post Last Christmas. Fluff and Smut. Tiny bit of angst. M. Whouffaldi


Chocolate Powder (Slow Warmed then Whisked)

Clara glanced at her watch and then smiling closed the book she had been reading. Placing it to one side she wriggled her feet into her slippers and pushed herself up from the couch. It was that time of the evening, the time between finishing a chapter of her latest novel and letting her head hit the pillow. The time which had become a ritual in more ways than one, and for both of them. Clara made her way to the TARDIS kitchen.

He was there before her tonight which made her raise her eyebrows briefly before quickly adjusting her face to nonchalance while he still had his back to her. She always got here first, it was part of the process, then he would linger by the door until she invited him in and offered him a drink. But now he was seated at the breakfast bar apparently a million miles away although she suspected that his air of indifference was as untrue as her own. She knew that he knew she would notice his early arrival. She edged round the bar and opened the fridge for the milk. Should she say something? Tease him lightly for being keen?

She decided against it as she poured two mugs worth into a pan, he could be sensitive and prickly about their meetings, as though it revealed too much of the neediness she knew lurked under his grumpy old surface. It was all taking some getting used to, he'd explained the first time she'd mocked him. She'd immediately regretted it, the hurt look that flitted over his face before he buried it deep again. He'd sulked for a while and then to her surprise appeared again the next night, in the shadow of the door. She'd been gentler then and he'd told her why he found it so difficult. So hard to be comfortable in his own home.

Nine hundred years, he'd said. Nine hundred years alone and now Clara was on the TARDIS, in his space, and it took some getting used to. It wasn't that he didn't want it, he just didn't know how to adjust. He'd kept his eyes averted as he'd said it, his fingers drawing patterns on the work surface, and when he'd finally glanced up she saw something bare and frightened inside him.

OK, she'd said, no more teasing. And for good measure, she'd added another reassurance. Your pace. Their eyes had locked for a moment and he gave her a twitch of a smile, fleeting, grateful.

They didn't need to discuss to what 'your pace' alluded. They both knew and wanted the same thing. All of it, large and small, simple daily living and lifetime commitments. He'd been reassured but he still skittered around her nervously sometimes and those times were almost always now, in the evening before bed, when distractions were few and there were no planets or adventures to be had. When it was just her and him.

And cocoa.

Clara warmed the milk the old fashioned way and then heaped chocolate powder into it, watching it sink and change the colour of the liquid. Two little islands of chocolate floating for a moment before they merged and sank together. It was the way her mum used to make hot chocolate when she was small and the way the Doctor preferred it, slowly heated and then whisked.

He added more sugar than her of course.

But there was something important about the fact she made it for _him_, something nurturing about the act. He'd spend his days taking her places, showing her things, getting them into trouble, saving the day, fighting aliens, occasionally rescuing them and at the end of it all they'd meet up in the kitchen and she'd make him a hot drink. It was oddly domestic. And he didn't seem to mind. In fact he hadn't missed a single night.

It was months since Christmas and they had a routine. The meetings were longer, the conversations less superficial. She felt him open and grow tentatively as each evening passed.

He'd confessed to her about sleep. That standing up cat naps weren't exactly an accurate description of his needs. That yes, Time Lords needed less than humans but not that much less, maybe four or five hours. That the cat naps came from necessity, he hadn't chosen that mode of rest.

Trenzalore? she'd asked and he'd said yes. Trenzalore required him to be awake and on guard. Possible invasions and all that. He stopped and she'd looked at him certain there was more. And then he'd hesitated and she'd caught something in his eyes again. Something he needed to share but wasn't sure he could. Could he? He'd looked down into the cocoa and warmed his hands on the mug.

Go on, she'd said.

He'd cat napped long before Trenzalore, he'd said. For as long as he could remember. And it started at school. He'd taken a breath and let it out uncertainly, glancing up to see if she was still there, still listening. When she was he continued. He'd been the youngest, he said, when he was sent away, and the most… the most… sensitive? he queried trying to define himself. He hadn't adapted well and the other boys had been quick to see it. He grew afraid to sleep, afraid of what they might do to him, hide things in his sheets, pour water on the bed, haul him out and pass him around, taunting him, pushing and shoving and…

He'd stopped and chewed his lip for a short moment before lifting the drink to his mouth. Clara tried not to notice how his hands shook.

Sleep never came easily after that, he'd said. As a child he tried to hide somewhere safe to snatch a few minutes. As an adult he had the TARDIS but old habits wouldn't die. He was permanently sleep deprived and probably a little insane as a result. He smiled and Clara joined him even though her heart was still thinking of the little boy.

She wanted him to feel safe.

Clara put tonight's cocoa down in front of him and watched his long fingers emerge from the ends of his sleeves to receive it. He drew the mug towards him and hunched over it and she wondered what was wrong. She sipped her drink and waited, he would tell her, when he could.

After the sleep he'd told her about the loneliness. She'd been talking about the time they were apart, how alone it made her feel and he suddenly confessed. Loneliness came in different forms, he said, he was an expert. The kind he'd felt at school when he just didn't fit, the loneliness of Trenzalore when surrounded by the citizens of Christmas, right down to the kind he felt in the TARDIS, floating in the vortex while she'd grieved for Danny on earth. He had surprised her then with his honesty, with the starkness of his words.

I missed you, he said.

I missed you too.

No, Clara, you don't understand.

But she did.

She went to rinse her mug and he still hadn't spoken. Arrived first but hadn't spoken. She wasn't sure what to do, the change in routine was unnerving. Normally they'd have chatted, serious subject or not, made their plans for the following day, to visit a moon or a planet, a collection of stars, and then she'd insist on the hug.

The nightly hug.

And he'd protest.

But he'd do it anyway. The goodnight hug that was a condition of her presence and the cocoa. They'd hug and then go their separate ways albeit a little closer than before.

She rinsed her mug and stood looking at him, her brows knitted.

She asked if he was done and he pushed the mug away from him until she picked it up and cleaned it like its partner, setting them side by side to dry.

He looked pale and worried by the time she was finished, like he was dreading the end of their meeting, like his hearts were in his throat. He nervously glanced up at her and then away. Clara edged back round the breakfast bar until she was next to him. No point in breaking with tradition on her side and maybe that was what he was counting on. She held out her arms.

Come on then.

He was still seated and in this position their eyes were level. He dropped a hand to her hip and slipped it smoothly around her back, the thin material of her dressing gown making a soft noise as it moved. He pulled her towards her as he spun slightly on his stool and then her head was on his shoulder and his arms were tight.

It felt different. It felt desperate.

The evening hug was in constant metamorphosis. At the beginning he was horribly awkward and though he didn't resent it, it was clearly an act which concerned him. His limbs he said, just didn't do the hugging thing very well this time round, they wouldn't feel comfortable and he worried they wouldn't for her either.

And then there was the face. He couldn't see her face. It took a long time to reassure him that she wasn't hiding anything.

He hid his instead, against her neck.

Slowly it became easier. Once or twice he even initiated it, teasing her that she'd better get it out of the way or over and done with while he was in the mood. She noted it lasted longer and felt softer as time went by and that more and more it reflected the mood of the day in a way that was almost human. A day of adventure and fun resulted in an enthusiastic squeeze. A difficult day resulted in him holding her, arms still but for a tentative stroking at her back.

And now.

Now he was standing but his grip on her didn't lessen so instead she became pulled against his chest and his face dipped into her hair. Clara could feel both of his hearts hammering hard by her cheek. She brought her hands up and her fingers wandered across his ribs, snagging his nipples, hard under her touch.

He shifted and she felt him press against her and a new sound come unbidden from his throat, soft and needy and still as uncertain as he had ever been. Clara leaned back and looked up at him to find him immediately look away his hands falling from her awkwardly. His pupils were dilated.

No sleep, no company, no-one to hold. The nights had been long for him.

His pace, and they were creeping closer. But he wouldn't make that final move himself, she felt it as surely as she felt his breath coming in uneven waves over her face. He was so close, but he would never _believe_.

Clara took the very tips of his fingers between her own and tugged gently, catching his eye.

Bedtime.

The same word she said every night except this time she didn't let go of his hand and waited for his reply. After a moment he managed to nod and she led him away.

He didn't have a room, he'd explained. There wasn't much point when you didn't sleep longer than twenty minutes and he could do that in his chair. He had places of course, rooms with things in them, memories and memorabilia, comfortable libraries and galleries, but nowhere that could be classed as a bedroom. Nowhere that was a room with just a bed.

Clara's room had a bed. And lots of other things too but its primary function was comfort, in the same way her cocoa, her cosy pyjamas and slippers were things which felt safe and secure. She shut the door behind him and bid him sit on the edge of the bed, standing between his knees and running her hands through his hair, bending him to lean his face against her breasts and holding him. She felt more than saw him close his eyes, felt the slump of his shoulders in relaxation, let him take as long as he needed as her fingers felt for the soft curls at his neck. His hands came around her hips and held her still.

She asked what he wanted and told him just to be honest. That it could be as much or as little as he needed right then. That she was happy just to have him here for an hour, for a night, under the covers or lying on top, they could have a pyjama party, she said, or they could make love, it didn't matter.

He panicked and Clara spent a few minutes trying to calm him down. It was OK, she said, making love was just an option, one that didn't have to be considered if it was too soon.

And he blushed. He was two thousand years old, he said, he shouldn't get into a state just at the idea. He passed a hand over his face and sighed. Clara made a joke to relax him. Something about most men getting in a state about her and how even Time Lords couldn't be immune. She sat on the bed next to him and took his hand.

Pyjama party then.

But he didn't want that either so she let him set the pace.

Somewhere in between?

She'd said yes, ok somewhere in between. It was a big spectrum of possibility.

He kissed her, a fluttering kiss, barely there before it vanished and he withdrew to steady his breath. Clara edged a little closer and nudged his nose with hers until he came back to her, lips meeting hers more confidently now and the feel of his body pressing against her. He kissed her like he needed her to live, like she was oxygen.

They kissed and soon they were toppling, a controlled fall onto the bed while limbs adjusted and muscles moved them until they fitted one another better. She let him guide, let him lay on top, one arm circling her and his pelvis ground into her hip. He was hard already, his body moving against her in rhythm and his breathing rapid. He tried to stifle a little cry and bucked shamelessly against her.

Slow down.

Clara pulled back and broke the kiss noting how he buried his face against her neck, panting headily. His cheeks burned.

Sorry.

His apology from the crook of her neck, his embarrassment evident in the heat from his face and the way he wouldn't look at her.

He got carried away. He wasn't used to the body yet, he said, it had been nearly a thousand years and then he'd changed… he'd never…

The penny dropping in Clara's mind and she let out a light laugh. That was all it was. Well that was fine, not to worry. But he was prickly, he was defensive now, something about her response had touched a nerve. His body felt stiff in her arms and he still wouldn't return her gaze.

Her turn to apologise, her mind wondering how to phrase it in such an odd situation. Two millennia old and married four times. More lovers than she would ever be able to count and yet here he was, technically untouched. Virginal and very out of practice. And what did that actually mean when she thought about it? What was_ he_ feeling? Unfamiliar with what arousal felt like in this body, of how to temper it, unsure how it would feel to be touched, to be inside her, to climax. Yet he didn't lack experience, he knew what was possible and was so aware of it too. So aware that she was probably expecting something more, something better than what he felt able to offer right now. He felt inadequate and disappointed in himself when in the past she surmised he probably didn't lack confidence or skill. It was an odd juxtaposition. Right now he was no more than a hormonal teenager aching with lust and unable to control it and he wanted the TARDIS to open up and swallow him as a result.

She tried to find words to reassure him but struggled to come up with anything original.

It's OK.

She stroked his hair, conscious of him trying to get his breathing under control and of the hard shape at her hip. She wanted to help him, relieve him both of that pressing arousal and of his insecurity. She ran through options in her head and none seemed right. Eventually he sat up a little, looked at her shyly, and surprised her.

Can we… try again?

Experience won in the end. Every incarnation must have had a first time. He was embarrassed but he also wasn't giving up.

She laid him back in the pillows and kissed him, making sure to pin him securely between her thighs to prevent any wayward thrusts. She let him dictate the kiss and quickly found him adjusting to her depth and rhythm, a quick learner despite this body's naivety. He sucked at her lower lip and let his mouth trail down her neck, his hands on her waist, her hips, her backside. Clara felt herself grow warm and pushed against him harder, her breasts pressing into his chest briefly before the need for contact became too great and she sat back, her fingers on the buttons of his shirt.

His hands closed over hers and she looked up to find his pupils blown. She tried again to release a button and the glimpse of discomfort she had suspected she had seen became more obvious. She batted his hand away and called him silly even as he wriggled under her. She wanted to see him, she wanted to feel him, she didn't care that he didn't look twenty six any more. Reluctantly he removed his hand and she opened his shirt, bending to place soft kisses on the pale skin, feeling sparse silver hair tickle her nose, her smile against the muscles of his chest doing more to reassure him than words ever could. She pulled the shirt off and in kind he removed her dressing gown leaving her in her cami top and pyjama bottoms. Clara brought his hands to her breasts and then encouraged him to remove the cami, letting her body press against him again, smooth skin on skin, heat moving from her body to his. He groaned and she felt him thrust up under her, the material of her pyjamas growing damp from her own arousal.

She let him roll her over and remove her bottoms, his hands soft on her belly and his lips following suite. He was breathing her in, letting his tongue draw curves on her skin and dip into the crease of her thigh. She felt her sex quiver and moisture leak from between her legs, her heartbeat a staccato pace in her ears. Clara tangled her fingers in his hair and urged him a little closer to her centre until his mouth grazed the patch of hair there and she moaned lowly. She felt him nuzzle her and then the slick sharp heat of his tongue flicked across her clitoris causing her to clench at his thick grey curls and scratch against his scalp with her nails. Here he was confident as a hundred generations of experience allowed him to map and stimulate her body with ease. His mouth and hands and lips worked in unison. He brought her close to release in minutes before she pushed him back.

He looked at her dazed, his confidence suddenly lessened. Had she changed her mind? Was it no good? She reassured him and then told him that she wanted to come in his arms… if he felt that the time was right, if he wanted to? She said that this was his first time as well as their first time and it had to be his choice. He smiled and placed a kiss on her stomach before a simple, 'yes,' and she beckoned him back up her body.

He wanted to, he said, moving over her, between her thighs, but he was already apologising and at first she couldn't tell why. When she reached down to touch him she found him hard and hot and moist, seeping into her palm. He panted at the lightest caress and she knew he wouldn't last. But it mattered, it mattered that they were joined, it mattered that she give him this and that he knew she wanted him so she brought him to her and placed him at her entrance, silencing his apology with her lips and stroking him until he all but bucked into her core with need. He was so close and so desperate, her whispered reassurance in his ear, and finally his hand slipped between them to grasp himself and fumble his entry.

He cried out immediately against her and she felt his fingertips dig down into her hip as he sank his full length into her heat. Clara could feel his muscles shaking in a vain attempt to hold back his desire and at the same time her own body was clamping around him, drawing pleasure from him in waves. He had brought her so close with his mouth that this sensation might be enough, the steady pound of his body inside her growing more frantic and his arms tightening as he held her. Clara could feel herself starting to come undone but at the same time something in his rhythm shifted and his movements became erratic, shallower. She could hear him, a deep groan of impending release building in his chest and then he was keening, burying his face in her neck and whispering her name.

Clara. Clara. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

And she knew he couldn't hold off for her as much as he wanted to and that he was falling, his hips jerking to their own pace now and the cry at the back of his throat suddenly bursting forth as he thrust hard, again and again and again, his seed spilling into her in hot bursts before he panted sharply into her shoulder, his body spent and shaking.

I'm sorry.

Clara's lips seeking his out and a soft nuzzle between them, his cheek moist and his eyes shut. She twisted some of his hair between her fingers and stroked the shape of his ear as she watched him regain his composure and his features relax. When he opened his eyes they were the brightest of blues. He dipped a kiss into the well of her throat and then continued his journey, resuming his position between her thighs, lapping at her heated throbbing sex with the broad side of his tongue before circling her clitoris with its hardened tip. Clara felt her orgasm build quickly, her hands squeezing at his shoulders and her mouth speaking both commands and profanity as he skilfully released her into trembling, pleading pleasure.

She was dimly aware of the dampness of the sheets and the warmth of the room as he crawled up to join her, his arms slipping around her and his kiss at the crook of her neck. She was aware of the TARDIS lowering the lights and silencing the noises of the ship to a steady background hum. And she was aware sleep was coming…

Sleep came to both of them and she wondered as she woke and watched him dozing the next morning.

How long had he slept?

And what else was different?

The day passed normally enough. A planet. Some waterfalls made of tiny crystals. A sunset.

And then it was evening. And she knew. She knew and she smiled to herself as she watched him.

He was first to the kitchen again but this time she noted he had got to the fridge before her. He'd already measured out the mugs and was leaning against the cooker slowly warming the milk. There was something comforting about the smell of it and the sight of him as he started spooning in the chocolate powder. Clara tried to poke her head around him to watch it settle into the liquid and change its colour, two islands of chocolate sinking and merging. She pouted, this is my job.

He just looked at her and smiled.


End file.
